


Cycle Of Seasons

by Suzie Shooter Archive (Suzie_Shooter)



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ducks, M/M, Seasonal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-09
Updated: 2017-09-09
Packaged: 2018-12-25 17:30:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12040761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suzie_Shooter/pseuds/Suzie%20Shooter%20Archive
Summary: Four related seasonal snippets, and a friendship that might bend occasionally but will never break.(First posted on LJ, 8th August 2007)





	Cycle Of Seasons

It was a bright, hard day of cloudless sky and biting air. Aziraphale, standing under the leafless trees by the lake blew on his fingers, wisps of frozen breath unfurling into the air.

A quiet laugh behind him made things he tried to ignore curl warmly inside him like a contented cat. 

"And what, precisely, is so funny, dear boy?" he murmured, without turning round. 

A figure in a long black leather coat and dark glasses moved forward to stand at his side. 

"The idea that you might be cold, angel." Crowley grinned. "Of course if you need warming up, I could provide a little hellfire?" He tossed a crust of bread deliberately short of the water, and smirked as the nearest duck had to struggle up the bank to reach it.

Aziraphale sniffed disapprovingly. "It's winter. One keeps up the appearances. One might not need to breathe, either, but it would alarm the humans if one appeared not to."

"That's a lot of ones. I didn't realise there was three of you."

He glanced at Crowley, and sighed. The demon's breath was also rising on the cold air. In perfect circles. As he watched, the next exhalation formed itself into a small mouse, which waved at him before dissipating.

Aziraphale shook his head, trying not to smile. 

\--

Spring came late to the city, but finally the parks were swathed in green and verdant splashes forced their way up through cracks in the pavement like someone had sloshed a pot of particularly vivid paint everywhere. 

Aziraphale stood at the window of the bookshop, encouraging the weeds to bloom in the backyard. _The triumph of hope over adversity_ , he thought to himself, _Or was that something else?_ He frowned. Looking up, he watched a young finch alight on top of the fence and smiled as it sang to him. 

There was a blur of motion, and a burst of feathers which floated like light rain to the cracked concrete of the yard. A hawk, beak full of finch, soared skywards.

"Was that really necessary?" he asked of the apparently empty room.

Crowley stepped out from behind a bookcase. "What?" He looked affronted. "One of God's little creatures just had a nice breakfast. How can you possibly object?" He chuckled, and perching on the edge of the desk, started cleaning his nails with Aziraphale's letter opener.

Aziraphale snatched it away and glared at him. "Next time, I would appreciate it if you would knock," he said coldly.

Getting slowly to his feet, Crowley regarded him silently, eyes hidden behind the ever-present sunglasses, despite the dim light.

"Fine," he said quietly. And left. 

Aziraphale watched him go. Only after the noise of the Bentley had faded into the distance did he kick the desk so hard that the leg shattered, papers showering to the floor like feathers.

\--

It had been a long, hot summer. Plants and trees had withered and died. The sun beat down relentlessly, making people tired and irritable.

Crowley prowled through the park, not, absolutely not, on the off chance Aziraphale might be feeding the ducks. He looked at the rows of humans all willingly greased up and set out to roast, and could tell at a glance where the cancers were setting in. He smiled grimly, and wandered out past a man carefully closing up and locking his car behind him, leaving a dog that whined quietly in protest on the back seat. 

Ten steps on, Crowley stopped. Went back. Glared at the car until all four windows rolled themselves all the way down. Went on his way, telling himself the car could be stolen now. That was what had prompted his act. Nothing else.

In the shade of a kiosk across the parched gravelled earth, Aziraphale watched him go.

\--

The leaves were turning to shades of gold and burnt orange, falling gently through air that held a hint of bonfire, before settling on the water. Jaded ducks dabbled around the fallen leaves purely on principle, and were as surprised as ducks can be when they turned into crusts of bread.

Aziraphale did a double take. "I didn't do that," he muttered.

"The fatter they get, the slower they get, the more chance there is they get eaten by a fox," said a voice behind him, not entirely convincingly.

"I thought I could smell smoke," said Aziraphale without turning round. Sensed a dark figure move slowly to his side. 

"Knock knock," it said.

Aziraphale turned. Wasn't sure what he was going to say, but Crowley spoke first. 

"I love Autumn. All the death and decay and firework accidents." He shot a sidelong glance at Aziraphale and smiled slowly. "But do you know why I really like it?"

Aziraphale shook his head, forgetting to breathe as Crowley stepped closer, until they were almost touching. Making no move to pull away as Crowley stroked the back of one gloved hand down his cheek and murmured softly, "Because in America, they call it the Fall."

\--


End file.
